St. Patty's Day Miracle

While I don't want to give lots of background about my life, some is necessary to understand my story.

I was born Kate Colleen O'Keenan, the second daughter in a family of eight Irish Catholics. My older (by 14 months) sister Bridget was/is a haughty entitled bitch (since this is my story you have to accept my characterization -- you can contact her if you want another point of view). Growing up we were always competitive, especially in looks and boys. I couldn't compete with her intellectually, although I was much wilier, and she couldn't compete with me athletically no matter what the sport or activity.

As far as looks are concerned, you can tell that we are sisters, including the classic Irish red hair and green eyes, and basic facial features. However, our "real assets" are quite different. If you value facial beauty and big tits over everything else, Bridget is your girl. If you value a nice round arse and killer thighs, you'd take me every time. We're both 1.7 meters tall, she weighs 58 kilos, me 62, the difference mostly due to my muscular arms, arse, and thighs.

When I was 18 (wink, wink) my parents took Bridget and I from our Dublin home on a summer holiday to Inchydoney Island Lodge & Spa, a four star resort on the southern coast of Ireland. The trip was a reward for our success at school and life the previous year, Bridget for her perfect grades, me for my good grades and gold medals in three different sports. My father Bariie was a successful businessman who could easily afford the fare, especially since we left my four annoying little brothers at home in Dublin with my fraternal grandparents.

My parents had one room -- hopefully they weren't going to be making any more kids, six was enough -- and Bridget and I shared a room far from theirs. Of course Bridget's two suitcases were jammers with all sorts of makeup and fancy clothes, while my small knapsack contained only the essentials -- bikini, athletic clothing, one dress, one lipstick, and some sunscreen.

There were a number of summer hunks working at the resort, which of course led to an unspoken competition between Brat-jet (my favorite nickname for sis, which drove her nuts) and me to see who could draw the most male attention. Brat-jet was a more blatant flirt than I was so she seemed to be winning. However, then we ran into Mr. Sean O'Sullivan, a fine thing if there ever was one.

My parents and another family of four hired Sean -- the expert summer-time sailor at the resort -- to take us out on a sail. Sean was a hunk and a half. He had to be almost two meters tall, and was 100 kilograms of muscle, with a ruggedly handsome face, a shock of hair with a blondish color that almost any woman would kill to have, and the most intense blue eyes and brilliant smile you could ever imagine. On the cruise he also displayed a marvelous sense of humor and an impish personality.

Of course Brat-jet spent most of the cruise trying to cozy up to Sean, but much to her dismay even when he had sunglasses on both she and I could tell that Sean was enamored with my arse and thighs, not with her big tits. I flirted in a much different way than Brat-jet did; I was coy, but dished out sly smiles where appropriate, and while still laughing made mildly denigrating comments about his jokes.

When we got back to the resort I could tell that Brat-jet was quite disappointed that Sean didn't swoon over her. When I shook his hand goodbye, however, I stroked his palm with my index finger nail and he gave me the most brilliant smile of the trip.

While Brat-jet was showering to get ready for dinner I tracked Sean down. There was no time for subtlety. He was happy to see me as I sauntered up to him in my bikini. I was beyond brazen and employed my best slang from Dublin and from American TV shows (I loved crime shows with female cops the best).

"So Mr. Sean O'Sullivan, I'd like to know why you were so delira and excira about my arse on our little sail," I said as I removed my sunglasses and stared up into his eyes. [If you don't know Irish slang, look it up -- I'm not a travel guide.]

"You know I'm not supposed to fraternize with the guests more than a wee bit, dontca; I'm just a poor university student trying to get by and I can't be acting the maggot with the sexy female guests," he grinned.

"So the guest's always right then, is she?" I grinned back.

"'Cept when it comes to a sail," he snickered.

"So I'm kinda like the admiral and you're kinda like a lowly seaman then, I suppose," I snickered right back.

"You might say that -- if you was delusional," he laughed.

"Well as the admiral I'm asking you to speak your piece seaman; nothing you say will be repeated to anyone else, unless of course you think that my sister Brat-jet is sexier than myself, in which case I'll tell all sorts of lies about you," I chuckled.

"All right," he guffawed.

After a pause I repeated "so why were you so delira and excira about my arse and thighs on our little sail?"

"'Cause they're the finest that I've ever seen, that's why, Ms. Admiral Kate O'Keenan."

"Right answer Mr. O'Sullivan; you'll go far in this world and with the ladies. So again, speaking freely seaman, what do you plan to do about it?"

"Well if I could be sure I'd not get into a haymes, or look like an eejit I'd ask if you'd like to meet me tonight on the beach to drink some black stuff -- Admiral O'Keenan."

"That's the spirit seaman; exactly when and where would you like to meet?"

"At the slip we sailed from this morning, say half-past midnight."

"I'll see you at half past one -- or earlier if I'm sure sister Brat-jet is asleep," I replied in the most sultry tone that I could conjure. I then stroked my index finger over his chest and sashayed away swinging my goods to most effect.

Before I go on I should tell you that unlike most good little Catholic girls that I knew, I was on birth control courtesy of a friendly gynie, and unknown to my devout mother Fiona (she truly is a Holy Joe). While I was no virgin I wasn't all that experienced sexually but only because I hadn't come across a fine specimen like Mr. Sean O'Sullivan before. Everything about him had me all horned up.

*************

Once I was sure that Brat-jet was asleep, with just athletic shorts and a tank top on I snuck out of the room about quarter to one. Sean was at the slip holding a thick blanket and a six pack of Guinness. His smile lit up the night when he saw me.

"I thought that we'd have a walk along the beach and tip some of the black stuff," he chuckled as I returned his smile.

"How lovely," I replied.

"Shall I call you Ms. O'Keenan, Admiral, or something else?" he chuckled as we walked off the dock toward the far corners of the beach.

"Kate will do just fine, Sean," I replied, batting my eyelashes.

We engaged in small talk as we disappeared from the view of the resort, at which point Sean laid out the blanket on the sand and we opened two bottles. It was clear to us where this was headed, and either of us would have been disappointed with any other result.

Sean and I didn't really find out much about each other -- except for how compatible our male and female parts were. We were action people, not Chatty Cathy types.

Suffice it to say that Mr. O'Sullivan gave as fine an account of himself as any man I was ever with before or since, both with his talented tongue and his unusually large and stiff shillelagh; plus his mammoth set of plums was fun to fondle and suck. By the time that five a. m. rolled around I was wiped out, sweaty, and thought that I better get back before Brat-jet woke up, I had ridden Sean like the consummate stud that he was, he had doggy-fucked me while stroking and squeezing my arse the entire time, he had licked my thighs raw, and in total he had made three sperm deposits in my anxious gee, causing cum to leak out in rivulets.

When as we parted Mr. Sean O'Sullivan earnestly said "You're the highlight of my life, Kate O'Keenan," I non-verbally responded in kind by trying to reach his tonsils with my tongue as I passionately kissed him. We made plans to meet again the next night.

When I snuck back into my resort room about 5:30, even though I had to walk bowlegged it was the best that I had ever felt in my life; that is until I saw that the evil sister had arisen.

"Where were you? Out being a slapper?" she asked with her arms crossed like a disappointed school teacher.

"I couldn't sleep so I went for a walk on the beach, if it's any of your business Brat-jet," I lamely replied -- even I wouldn't have believed that.

I discarded my shorts and top on the floor, went into the bathroom, and took a quick soak in the tub, careful to remove as much cream from my gee as I could. When I returned to the main part of the room, Brat-jet was gone -- along with my delightfully cum-stained shorts. "Fuck," I snorted aloud, "would the bitch actually wake up our parents to snitch on me?"

I got the answer soon enough. My parents bolted through the door a few minutes later with my snarky sister smiling behind them. My father took it well -- he was always the calm one in the family and way more tolerant than my mother -- but Fiona was apoplectic, telling me that I was going to hell, and asking who was going to take care of the bastard child, etc. Of course I never revealed that I was on birth control, nor did I finger Sean -- I told them some guy that I met at the resort bar (where summer employees were forbidden) was the one to soil my shorts.

My father was willing to let things ride, but my mother demanded that I be driven to the nearest bus stop to make my way back to Dublin. Fortunately I was able to get a note to Sean to tell him to deny everything and that I hadn't fingered him, and regretting that further contact would not be possible -- before I was unceremoniously expelled by the maternal parent. Thankfully Bairre, not Fiona, was the one to drive me to the bus stop, and he was -- as the Yanks say -- "chill" about the whole thing, especially after I admitted to him that I was on birth control (after extracting from him the promise never to tell my Holy Joe mother).

That episode destroyed any semblance of sisterly love -- or even tolerance -- that I previously had toward Brat-jet, and to this day we only speak when in the presence of our parents.

Despite my all-time encounter with Sean I didn't think it worthwhile to try and contact him -- like I said I knew almost nothing about him, not even what University he attended and there must be a gazillion Sean O'Sullivans in Ireland. Also, I was afraid that despite his parting words he'd just consider me a Sally, good for fucking but not worth having a relationship with. Even though I never made any real effort to find him I thought about him at least once every fortnight, the thought always evincing a smile on my soul if not my face.

**************

As my story starts I was 34 years old and had already had great professional success; a degree in criminology from The University College of Dublin; a position as a lead homicide detective in the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation of An Garda Síochána, the Irish National Police Force, based in Dublin; a record of being primarily responsible for the capture or death of three serial killers; and a black belt in Brazilian jujitsu.

My personal life was not successful. I had been divorced for three years (courtesy of the passage of the Divorce Referendum in 1996), and went back to using my maiden name after the divorce was final. The only time that I had been pregnant I caught my husband Conor cheating; I blame the stress and angst of that time for my miscarriage. I was thankful that the Review Board took pity on my situation and I was only suspended for a month after I kicked the blarney out of Conor's plums, and slapped his mistress.

Enough background!

***************

When I sauntered into the station early on a Monday morning I was surprised to see the Detective Chief Superintendent already there. "Don't get comfortable O'Keenan; there's been an incident in Dún Laoghaire that I want you and Malley to investigate."

That was another surprise -- Dún Laoghaire is a high end area of Dublin where I couldn't remember a homicide occurring since I became a detective. I was pleased that Ailbe Malley would be my partner for this assignment. He had three qualities that I admired -- he was loyal to a fault; he had no qualms about getting his hands dirty and never complained about even the most heinous assignment; and he was the toughest guy that I had ever been associated with, 120 kilograms of pure muscle. The only three criminals stupid enough to fuck with Ailbe were rendered unconscious or immobile with one clatter from him.

"What's the address?" I asked.

"10 Grangewood Court, the O'Sullivan residence; I sent directions to your mobile," the Superintendent replied.

"What are the particulars?"

"It appears that Mr. O'Sullivan burned to death in his garage -- suspicious circumstances. Officers and crime scene techs are there and will provide more information."

I called Malley, who wasn't in the office yet, and told him to meet me at the O'Sullivan residence.

When I got to 10 Grangewood Court I was mildly surprised by its grandeur -- it had to be worth well over a million euros. Ailbe had beaten me there and was anxiously waiting for me before questioning anyone. After we exchanged fist bumps we went up to the head crime scene tech, who was standing in a garage bay that had clearly been ravaged by fire. "Give me the quick details Dara," I said.

"A neighbor called in a fire in the middle of the night. As you can see by the foam still lingering all over the place and the condition of the walls, Kate, the fire was in this garage bay and was extinguished before consuming the rest of the residence. The fire captain called in the body. It definitely is a fairly large male, and from a preliminary questioning of Mrs. O'Sullivan it likely is her husband Sean," Dara replied.

Although Sean O'Sullivan was a common name, I got an eerie feeling -- could it be the Sean O'Sullivan who was my best fuck/memory ever?

I regained my composure. "Was there a vehicle in the bay when the fire occurred?"

"No vehicle in either of the two garage bays at the time."

"Where was Mrs. O'Sullivan?"

"You'll have to ask her -- she wasn't the most cooperative person in the world so far. She's in the house right now with a friend of hers."

"Is that the body under the tarp?"

"Sure is -- we won't move it until the coroner is here -- supposedly he's on his way."

"Let's have a look," I said. Dara carefully pulled the tarp off. Whoever he was he was a completely crispy critter.

As Ailbe and I walked up a flight of stairs to the front door, we peeked into the front window. A woman was kissing a man -- and not platonically. Ailbe and I raised our eyebrows at each other.

Ailbe banged on the front door once with his meathook, shaking the entire frame. The woman we had seen swapping spit answered. "Mrs. O'Sullivan?" I inquired.

"Yes I'm Aelish O'Sullivan...who are you?" she replied.

"Detectives Kate O'Keenan and Ailbe Malley; we need to come in to ask you some questions."

"Could you come back some other time, this isn't convenient."

"That's really too bad Mrs. O'Sullivan if it isn't a convenient time. When we have a potential homicide to investigate we aren't asking permission, we're not going to be denied," I responded with a real edge to my voice.

"Oh, all right, come in..." she reluctantly said.

Aelish was a truly beautiful woman. She was about my height, with a shapely body including an arse almost as nice as mine -- "almost."

As we entered the living room the guy who had been kissing Aelish complained "Is this really necessary, now..." but before he could finish in his baritone voice Ailbe asked "Who the fuck are you and why do you think that we care whether or not you think a homicide investigation is necessary?"

That took a little of the starch out of him, but not as much as it should have. "I'm Dennis Cahill, a friend of Aelish's trying to comfort her."

"Yeah, we saw you 'comforting' her through the front window," I snickered. "Ailbe could you escort Mr. Cahill into another room while I question Mrs. O'Sullivan."

"Now wait a minute, I'm not going anywhere..." Cahill started to say, making the mistakes of approaching me and of putting his hand on Ailbe to move him out of the way.

"Aagh," was his next comment as Ailbe had Cahill's left wrist in his right hand and Cahill was in pain on his knees. Ailbe encountered no more resistance as he "escorted" Cahill into the kitchen, and closed the door.

I took out my note pad and motioned to Aelish to sit down. "Who do you think the body in your garage is?" I asked.

"I assume that it's my husband Sean; he's been depressed lately and I think that he committed suicide."

"Where were you last night?"

"Well, I thought that Sean was out of town, so Dennis and I were out dancing."

"When did you get home?"

"About three in the morning. When we did the fire department was here having apparently just put out the fire and they told us that there was a body in the garage."

"Is Mr. Cahill your lover?"

"Uh...well...I wouldn't say that."

"Did he spend the night here?"

"Uh...well...yes, but..."

"Why were you intensely kissing him on the lips if he's not your lover and he spent the night?"

"Well...you see...well...Sean and I have been having problems...but I wouldn't call Dennis my 'lover.'"

After a pause during which I stared intently at Aelish in a no-nonsense voice I growled "Look Mrs. O'Sullivan, you need to stop lying immediately. Based on just your last statement I could lock you up -- it's criminal to lie to the police during a homicide investigation. So stop prevaricating. We will find out everything whether you are honest or not so lying won't help you, it will just get you arrested."

That really rattled Aelish. She took a deep breath and mumbled "OK."

"Now, is Mr. Cahill your lover?"

"Yes," she meekly responded.

"Is he your only lover?"

"How can you ask a question like that; it is..."

"Cut the shit Aelish and answer my question," I snapped.

There were a couple of tears -- I don't know if they were real or crocodile -- before she said "I guess there are two others in the recent past, but I haven't communicated with them for at least a couple of months."

"What are their names?"

"Uh...Adam Scully and Michael Ramsey."

I got their addresses, as well as Dennis Cahill's.

I called in Ailbe and told him that Cahill was "On Thee Job," and everything else that Aelish had told me so far. Using this information I told him to interrogate Cahill in the kitchen. Then I turned back to Aelish.

"OK, Mrs. O'Sullivan, now tell me everything that you can about your husband Sean."

*************

I interrogated Aelish for more than two hours, breaking for tea a couple of times. We sent Cahill home after Malley questioned him for about 45 minutes, and told him not to leave town, and then Malley joined me in questioning Aelish. We got one of the techs to get DNA samples from Cahill before he left, from Aelish, and from of Sean's personal items -- like his toothbrush and hair brush -- that were sure to have his DNA on them.

While Aelish told me many things, those that turned out to be most significant to my investigation were:

--Sean was a successful businessman, 36 years old. They had been married ten years, and she had been cheating on him on and off for the last two, supposedly because he paid more attention to his business than to her. She was quite sure that Sean didn't know about her lovers. She and Sean had no children.

--Sean's business had him dealing with many international figures, some of whom Aelish described as "rough," although she was sure that he wasn't involved in any illegal activity. He travelled internationally quite often. She didn't really understand his business, but knew that it involved computers and security.